Alive
by snapletonius
Summary: Sherlock sat stoic on the opposite side of a small table to Jim Moriarty, on the roof of st Barts. They had both been dead for a few years now, but this was to be their penultimate meeting. One final game to end it all, with John Watson as the ultimate prize. But you never know what to expect from people, especially those closest to you...
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat stoic on the opposite side of a small table to Jim Moriarty. They had both been dead for a few years now, but this was to be their penultimate meeting. Sherlock had spent every waking minute on the trail of every single person who could be involved with Moriarty. Each of them had posed a new threat, but after three years of traveling and hiding and killing, he was finished, save one. In truth Sherlock had known after the roof that Jim had faked it too, he had chosen to ignore that particular fact in favour of chasing down any helping hands. If he didn't have the man power Moriarty was nothing special, he wouldn't be one to get his hands dirty directly. Yet here they were, yet again, together on the roof of hospital. "Fitting, isn't it? You know I like to make a performance out of it all! We have so much history here, don't you agree Sherly?" Jim pursed his lips and leaned forward on his elbows, putting his chin in his hands. "Awfully quiet aren't we? How about a video to get you more vocal hm? I made this one myself, watch it every night before bed" He pulled out a laptop and tilted the screen so both men could watch. "Are you ready? Oh it's so good!"

The screen faded into white and then John was on the small screen, and the slide show began. Photos of their first date, and John smiling and laughing and their first kiss and him staring admiringly up at Sherlock as he deduced at a scene, the slides catalogued most all their time together, and

Sherlock remembered every instance that was frozen on screen, he had pulled them out in his head when he missed John. The next photo was of the fall, and John's face as he watched Sherlock topple over, John being taken home by Mycroft and Lestrade, both in absolute silence, The look of fury and hatred in his eyes as he punched Mycroft in the face. Then it was just John. Lying on the ground of their flat, tears pooling and trickling down his face, him falling asleep with Sherlock's robe clutched in his hands, Sitting in his armchair staring at his hands. "Wait wait wait, my FAVOURITE parts are coming up!" Moriarty chimed gleefully. Sherlock, whose stomach was already threatening to empty itself with guilt and pain and want, dropped entirely. Out of the pocket of the coat he had worn the day of the fall, John produced a velvet box. The next photo was of him sitting at the table, opening it. Inside, a thin band of silver peered out of a cushion bed, and then it was gone, stowed away into John's pocket again as he grabbed his cane and limped out. The final few frames showed John at Sherlock's grave, shivering in the rain. He half smiled before leaving the box at the foot of the stone that marked where he was supposed to be lying. The screen faded once more into black. "Wasn't that just touching? Your pet was very fond of you it seems! We would be sooooo much better together, all that sentimentality was hilarious don't you think?" Confident that Jim couldn't see his face, Sherlock closed his eyes. John had wanted to marry him, was going to ask him if he would stay forever.

"You'd never believe some of the great stuff I got from his therapy sessions honestly it's pure gold!" Sherlock was silent. He didn't want to hear this. "I'll play you some shall I, needn't tell you who's who, it's very clear. Session Twenty seven, He finally decides to speak to that mad woman." 'It's my fault you know' 'what's your fault?' 'That he's dead. I was..' 'You were?' 'I was smothering him I suppose, he couldn't wait to get away, and must've thought that killing himself was the best way. He could have told me he didn't love me. At least he would still be alive.'" Moriarty howled with laughter and wiped his eyes "There's more! Session eighty six, finally admits his feelings!" 'I loved the poor bastard, God I lived in constant awe of him and I loved him more for every insane thing he did... I was going to propose, see? I got it engraved too - Could be dangerous. You won't get that but... He would have.' 'It can be therapeutic to talk to the headstone of loved ones and tell them everything you would have told that person when they were alive. Perhaps you could write out what you would say? Bring it to our next session?' 'I might have to postpone it a bit, it'll be longer than the lord of the rings.' A light click signified the end off that recording.

"You see Sherlock, we play our game of chess, and one of us gets the prize, because the winner gets to take everything" Moriarty called, fiddling with the recording a bit more until he found his place. "For the grand finale, Session ninety four, John reads out his love letter!" 'Dear Sherlock, if you were listening you'd probably mock this, especially because Ella is involved, you were never her biggest fan. She said this might help me, to get over you, feel better or something. I don't believe that much, but I want to tell you a lot, and if this somehow reaches you well it'll be worth the pain of writing this. Because it was painful. I wish that I had told you when you were here, I love you Sherlock Holmes, and I always did. You brought me back to life, saved me in a way I couldn't save you. You said not to make people into heroes, but to me you will always be a hero, because you worked so hard to save everyone and solve it all... The day you jumped was the worst day of my life, and I have had my share of bad days, but nothing could have affected me more than losing you. You were the most human human I have ever known, and no one can ever convince me that you told me a lie. Even though you maybe didn't feel the same, I would have married you Sherlock, because I wanted to be yours until the day I die, still do. I punched Mycroft in the face for us both, I think I did a good job, his face swelled quite nicely. It's funny the things I've grown to miss. The 2am violin, constant texts, biohazards in the fridge, body parts in the food if there was any... Your voice, the swish of your coat, your curls, the small smiles you saved just for me, I even miss how bloody annoying you were. I can say for certain that I don't think I could have asked for a better friend, because you were the best friend I've ever had and I am so grateful that we met. You made me who I always wanted to be, and I can never thank you enough for giving me everything that you did, because to me, you were everything. Love, now and forever, Your John." The recording ended with a soft whir and Sherlock was trembling. You were everything.

"So you see Sherlock, I know I'm going to win, I always do. The question is, what I do with my prize? He'd make a fine pet for me. But you know how I love games...We can settle this easily. Guns on the table." Moriarty dropped his revolver on the table, and Sherlock followed suit, pulling his own gun out and placing it down. "Now switch them and roll the bullets... That's it. Now put it to your head." Sherlock smirked. "Russian roulette." Jim's smile glittered "That's right Sherly, well done!" The barrel of the gun rested snugly against both of their temples. "Pull on three!" Sherlock closed his eyes. "One." The safety clicked off, and Sherlock copied. "Two" His fingers curled around the trigger. "Three" a shot exploded through the air and Jim slumped onto the table, blood spattered across Sherlock. He opened his eyes to find a similarly bloodied John standing alone, smoking browning in his outstretched hands."I'm nobody's prize."


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm nobody's prize" John growled, eyes locked firmly on Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't speak, his lungs were suddenly inflating, as if they had just stopped being crushed by a tonne weight. He hadn't realised that even breathing was difficult without John at his side. "John how did you..." he trailed off, knowing he shouldn't really have to ask but for some reason his brain had stopped working. John laughed mirthlessly "I come here every year. This year I was delayed." John's answers were short and his voice monotone, his hands, still holding the gun but more loosely at his side, were the only part of him that wasn't trembling. Sherlock could have kicked himself for not realising that this was the third anniversary of his staged death. John closed his eyes and tried desperately to breathe evenly, keep himself upright and not burst into furious tears. "John I can explain" Sherlock pleaded with him, begging for him to listen, to understand. "Why bother? You don't have to explain yourself to me." If Sherlock hadn't known that his heart was still functioning he would have said that it had fallen out of his chest in that moment. John had not even been able to bring himself to say his name. He had lost this all once before, but that had been on his terms, to save them. Now he was watching it physically crumble before him and he was drowning in it all. "Yes I do John, I do." he tried for earnest, anything to cover the all consuming panic that wanted to explode forward.

"I'm getting the hell off this roof before I follow my instinct and push you off it myself." John said coldly, desperately trying to convince himself that just because that would make everything at least make slightly more sense it didn't mean he should do it. He limped minutely to the door and did not turn back to see if Sherlock was following him. He was. The dark clouds lay heavy in the sky, covering the stars obscuring the moon from view. Sherlock caught up with John and grabbed his arm, hurt flashing across his face when John grimaced and recoiled from his touch. "It was Moriarty. Three snipers one on Mrs Hudson, one on Lestrade and one on you. The only way they were leaving was if I jumped. I would have overpowered Jim at some point that day, He faked his death so I had no choice but to fake my own. I had to keep you safe. After, he had a world wide network of criminals that could have come back to threaten you. I couldn't let that happen." John stared at him hard, mouth set in a grim line. It began to rain. "You might as well have let me get shot. It would have been faster, Hurt less. Do you have_ any_ idea what I went through? Any at all? Those tapes, those photos? That's not even the half of it. You made me watch. How utterly _sick_ must you be to do that to me? I thought it was my fault. I lived with the guilt of _murdering_ you _every single day_ and guess what? I got to see it over and over and over _every single night_. You didn't save me. You _destroyed_ me."

Thunder boomed across the sky, and the rain had already soaked them both through. They were the only people on the street, everyone had heeded the storm warning and stayed in their homes. Sherlock swallowed hard, bracing himself against further onslaught, feeling every syllable as John spat the words at him, knowing that John had every right to this. If nothing else he deserved to have this one thing. John rolled on. " I must have been the worlds biggest idiot, thinking I was anything more than a pawn to you, well great job, I hope the results were conclusive, John Watson is in fact the stupidest, most naive dim wit to ever step into your path and you proved it to everyone. You needn't have bothered, I don't need any help to know just how idiotic I must have seemed, trust me on that. I was so angry with you at first, but then I realised I only had myself to blame because I was the one who ignored all the warnings, I was the one who initiated everything, I was the one who loved someone who didn't love me back." John was jabbing a finger into his own chest, emphasizing every yell. "Following along after you like a love sick puppy, all the while telling you how fucking amazing you are, completely blind to the fact that you were laughing harder than anyone else at me for even deigning to think that I wasn't alone in it all. You know what, you should get an Oscar for that acting, fooled me completely." John had deflated somewhat, his hair was plastered to his face and torrents of rain were running down it. Sherlock looked heart broken, eyes rimmed red, face even paler then it usually was. "John, you can't possibly believe that." John furrowed his brow and spread his arms wide "I don't believe in anything any more."

Sherlock stepped closer, noticing for the first time how distant they were. There was at least six metres between them. "You are not an idiot John, nor are you naive or a pawn. I would never, ever, laugh at you for feeling something for me. I wasn't acting when I was with you John, I save that for everyone else because you are the only person on this miserable planet that I didn't need to act for. Please don't think that I didn't love you, because I did, I still do. I shouldn't. A monster has no place loving or being loved and that is what I am, I rathered you alive and miserable than dead and leaving me alone. And I am so sorry John. I'm sorry that I am a monster. I'm sorry that I am so selfish that I'll ask you to forgive me. Most of all I am sorry for ever making you think that you aren't the only reason I have to keep breathing because you are, you have been since the moment we met. I know that I cannot begin to conceive what you must have felt, and I wish it had never happened but it did. I only wanted to make sure you were safe. In fact I wasn't going to come back." John had been speechless.

Right up until that last sentence. "You weren't going to come back. So what you're saying is, if I hadn't been up on that roof today, you would have just, what, left the country again, been a detective in America or some other continent? You would never have seen me again, left me to my guilt? Why?!" John was angry again, not that he hadn't been before but Sherlock had incensed him. "That's what I was doing before Moriarty called me up. I was in Brazil actually. I bring people who want you dead with me every where I go, it was a better idea to stay away, keep you from them. I hated every minute of it, but I have told you how selfish I am about you." John was silent. "It's ironic that I couldn't hold down a real job when you just slipped right back into what you used to do." "Real job?" John sighed and began to walk away, into the darkest alley of the street. "John?" John sighed. "I'm showing you." Warily Sherlock followed him into the tunnel, trailing along behind as John made confident turns and eventually stopped, picking up a torch from the ground and turning it on.

The tunnel was illuminated and Sherlock gaped at the sight that met him. It was homeless people, that much he knew. All of them were sporting warm clothing, there was food in orderly stacks against the wall, most of them had bandages on or the small cups hospitals used to administer a patients medication next to them. "Oh" Sherlock was genuinely taken aback. Why would John quit the clinic to work with, and that was when it hit him. John had done it for him, because he was gone. John nodded seriously "I wasn't the only one who depended on you that you left behind." A few people had stirred, and a woman in the farthest corner of the room beckoned John to her. In her arms she was cradling a new baby, no more than two months old. "Hello Tanya, what's up?" John smiled reassuringly down at her and she grinned back at him, familiar. John had obviously handled her throughout her pregnancy and they had become friends. The child in her arms was struggling, wriggling and crying out in little bellows "I think little Sherlock here wants to say hello" Sherlock nearly broke down at that. John had spoken of him, highly clearly, and often enough that this woman had named her son after him. John plucked the child from her outstretched arms and cradled it to his chest, rocking it slowly back and forth, humming gently. It was a tune that Sherlock was so very familiar with. He had composed it. The child settled in John's arms and drifted off. Carefully he handed it back to Tanya and walked away, leaving the group to rest properly. They were ill, and they needed to sleep.

Once outside again Sherlock felt the sting of the icy rain with renewed force. "John I don't know what to say." Sherlock really didn't. What do you say to that? Even when he was dead John still did things for him, never for himself. "I asked her not to name him that but she insisted." It hurt Sherlock just to look at how pained John's expression was. John cleared his throat. "Just for the record, I hope you know that I wasn't faking any of it, and that I always believed in you." Sherlock's eyes were filled with tears once more. "I know" he whispered softly, knowing what he was about to say would hurt a lot. "I guess I'm saying goodbye again. Last time I didn't really give you a chance to so I thought maybe this time I would give you that. I don't deserve you John, I know that better than most" "Shut up" John growled, but Sherlock ploughed on, he had to get this out "I don't think I could live anywhere other than with you if I was in London so obviously I have to leave. I'll leave on the first flight out today and" "Shut. Up." John took a menacing step forward. "Why are you making this more difficult than it already is?! This is important information and haven't seemed to grasp that yet, you don't have to be a genius to understand simple instruction, it's not difficult!" Sherlock's voice was rising and suddenly he was angry that John wouldn't just listen to him "SHERLOCK. SHUT UP." John shouted though they were inches apart. "Make me!" Sherlock defied even though he was shutting up and he didn't have any reason to say that but he had and he still felt like the monster that he always had and knew that John had every right to be so furious and dismissive yet the words had just slipped out.

"Fine" John said and he had his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him in. He pushed their lips together, surging deeply and Sherlock found himself parting his lips, welcoming the feeling of John's tongue in his mouth, dominating it like a conquering army. He

kissed back, grabbing hold of John's sopping wet jumper and allowing himself to be pushed roughly against a wall. He was thankful for the support because he hadn't felt this weak kneed in years now and he was flushed already feeling John grind against him, gripping his neck tightly as if he'd never let go, and Sherlock's body was responding, clamouring for every bit of contact, giving and taking in fury and melancholy and love and hope until they were both gasping for air and John broke away. He looked more tired and lonely than angry. "Are you really going to leave me again?" Sherlock's whole body was tingling, relishing in the feeling of something it had once lost and forgotten, the taste of John, his scent mingled with Sherlock's own. John looked as terrified as he felt. "No John. I am not going to leave you again" and John launched himself at Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing him. "I missed you" "I missed you too John, more than anything."

**A/N Well that happened... This is a continuation of a oneshot I did for the prompt Prize in my 50 johnlock fics, which is the first chapter. I may write another chapter or two if you think more is a good plan, thanks for reading -S**


	3. Chapter 3

John held onto him like the only reason he was still standing was Sherlock. Head nestled into his shoulder, he tried to get that smell, the one that he associated with Sherlock alone, but all he got was the smell of wet. Sherlock clung just as tightly, the two of them locked in an embrace, ignoring the biting chill of the wind against their wet skin, despite the rain that fell in an unending sheet around them, regardless of the darkness threatening to extinguish everything in it's path they held on. "Come home" John whispered, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "I am home John" Sherlock replied, squeezing his hand oh so tightly because he was home, John was cradled into his body in the hollow that had been designed purely with him in mind because how else would he fit so perfectly and he was home. If anything John clutched him tighter before breaking away, keeping their hands intertwined as he slotted himself at Sherlock's side and began to walk, shoes squelching as he went.

Sherlock kept pace, watching their reflections as they rippled underfoot in puddles. It was a startlingly apt metaphor. Everything around him was out of control and messy, but the one constant was John, always at his side, there to lead him into the light. They didn't talk, there were no words left that could pass between them, not now, not in this place. It was reverent silence, and Sherlock used it to study John, the man he'd left behind. He seemed lighter to feel against him, possibly more muscular though which in itself was fascinating as muscle weighs substantially more than fat. Clearly John had not been eating and working hard. Sherlock knew that he was in a similar state, his wiry frame was now gaunt, almost skeletal in it's angles and shadows. Sherlock watched his footsteps, the ghost of his limp had returned, and Sherlock hated that he had caused it, hadn't even had the decency to leave that one gift behind. He swore to himself that he would fix it again, would fix them both again. His face was worrying. When all other emotions had run their course, right before John had hugged him, all that was left was an inherent tiredness, a weariness of spirit that was plain to see in the turn of his mouth and eyes, the new wrinkles that had carved themselves into his skin, the scattering of grey hairs. John was exhausted with the world.

There was something that struck him as odd, out of place somehow but he could not put his finger on it. Something about the situation... And there it was, slipped into John's trousers as it used to be when they were on a case. Why bring a gun unless he had planned something a lot darker than merely commemorating the anniversary. The thing was clean, so eerily clean that even the Anderson's of the world could attest to it's nightly cleaning. Every night John had taken out his gun, and on the last night he would ever do that he had found the one reason not to. Sherlock saw, but said nothing. It was enough to simply squeeze his hand tighter, pull his body closer, as close as they could possibly be while still trudging through the rain. It lashed at their faces, hard enough to cause welts but Sherlock was relishing it, he was feeling something again, something more than guilt and hurt and loneliness. He had felt pain while he had been gone, but none of it had been like this, a pain so cleansing that he could nearly feel it exposing his soul. They rounded the corner onto Baker street and Sherlock wanted to run to the apartment and just be there again. His muscles would not obey him, not well enough to move any faster anyway. They were locked almost, and he was starting to feel warm again. Hypothermia. John had not really looked at him until now, but concern was splattered across his features like a Pollock piece. With fumbling hands John turned the key to 221 and maneuvered Sherlock upstairs.

Sherlock took a minute to stare at the place, the living room, the kitchen, everything left almost exactly as he remembered it. John had not packed away his things. He noticed after a fashion that John was leading him to the bathroom. Once inside (and there too was his shower gel, unused, but open capped as if John had sniffed at it) John closed the door behind them with a click and for once he didn't comment on the fact that they were both dripping on the floorboards because he didn't care, not when Sherlock needed him. Always so loyal, Mycroft had chided, but John's loyalty was his crowning glory, one part of what made him so fantastic. Sherlock quivered on the spot and John reached into the shower and turned it on, warm steam filling the room. It always surprised Sherlock how gentle John's hands were, and he was still surprised when they fluttered lightly against his shoulder, taking off his jacket. Sherlock leaned unconsciously into the touch and made no move to undress himself. He'd rather John's hands on him than his own. After catching his eye for a brief moment John started undoing his buttons slowly, so very slowly, staring at each tiny expanse of pale skin that became exposed.

When the shirt hung open he pushed Sherlock down until he sat on the toilet seat and then John took of his shoes and socks. Sherlock shrugged the shirt off and before he even spared a thought to the anger or guilt and everything else John would be feeling he began to lift the hem of John's jumper. There was a moment of pure fear when their eyes met and Sherlock realised that he had been on autopilot, he was going to stop when John raised his arms. Relief flooded his system and he slipped the soggy wool over John's head, standing his hair on end but neither man cared about that, not now. Sherlock unbuttoned John's shirt too, pushing the fabric off of him and adding it to the growing pile of dripping clothing that surrounded them. The water was warming up to the perfect temperature and John slipped out of his shoes and socks, leaning against Sherlock for support. John reached out and pulled Sherlock to him,loosening the belt that held up his trousers and sliding them down, holding Sherlock's arms as he stepped out of them.

Their eyes had not wandered from the other's face since John had raised his arms. It was all still there, so strong, built up inside of them, a spot would always remain for the other's heart. It was terrifying, to feel the strength of this one feeling that they shared, to watch as it played out in the other's face, to know that this was real and always would be because they had been apart for so long, lost for so long, yet here they were, together again, wishing they never had to be apart. Sherlock was fighting the urge to faint and John, his John, held him close and helped him out of the last of his clothes and into the warmth of the shower. Sherlock did not let go of John's arm, forcing him to undress one handed but Sherlock was not going to let him go, not again. John stepped in behind him and pulled the door closed, pushing Sherlock under the warm spray.

Warm water cascaded down their bodies, waking their muscles, bringing colour back to their world. The water dripped down their faces like a veil of tears, clinging to their eyelashes, and Sherlock shivered still, staring into the eyes of the man he'd almost lost. Lighter than a whisper John's hand cupped his face and his thumb wiped away the droplets of water that his eyelashes had collected, smiling softly at him. "I didn't get a chance to tell you before so, Sherlock Holmes I love you, more than anything else in the world. I love you." John's hand wrapped around his neck and Sherlock leaned down of his own volition, meeting John's lips halfway. He knew, Moriarty had seen to that. But how his heart beat raced when John said it, and how his stomach flipped, that was all because of John and his trusting gaze, that sad little smile, the feel of his hand on his face and neck, the sound of his voice. And he knew. "I love you John Watson, more than I ever believed possible. You are more than I could ever have imagined." Sherlock whispered into his mouth before kissing him again, holding his back with two hands, closing the distance between them because there shouldn't be any. Sherlock realised with a start that this was the first time in his life that anyone had told him they loved him, and that he had said it back, meant it back.

He pressed John flush against him, rubbing his hands across the planes of his chest, his hips, his thighs. John's breathing stuttured as he ran his hand slowly through Sherlock's curls, as if trying to trigger the muscle memory of his scalp, and succeeding because Sherlock could see this same action occurring in his head, the first time at the pool, telling him just how much John wanted him too, their first night together and John soothing his nerves with the gentle movement, At Baskerville when he'd thought he'd lost his mind and John had held him, whispering that he would figure it out, and finally when he'd been lying on the table in the morgue and John had said goodbye for the last time. He knew now that he had been telling him how much he loved him and the guilt was overwhelming, it flooded through him and burst, sending him into shuddering sobs. "I am so s-s-sorry John. I am so sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry" he bawled, body convulsing with the heaving sobs. John tilted his chin up so they were looking at each other again, answer he shook his head. "I know love, I know. It's ok. Come on now, you're home." He turned off the water and stepped out into the cold, grabbing a huge towel and wrapping it carefully around Sherlock, tucking him in, protecting him even after all he'd done. He tied one around his waist and took Sherlock's hand in his own, leading him out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

Sherlock was still wracked with sobs, it seemed his body was finally letting loose all that he'd held back for three years of being completely alone. He wept for the pain he had forced John to bear, he wept for the lives he'd taken even though they deserved it, he wept for his inability to protect those he loved, he wept for all the nights he'd spent alone and wondering if John was still his, he wept for the way he would never be good enough to deserve John, he wept for the fact that he could never express just how sorry he was for everything that had happened, especially for getting so wrapped up in the game that he left his heart unprotected. John held him as he did this, rocking slowly back and forth with Sherlock cradled against him, running consoling hands through his hair, allowing Sherlock to apologise with every breath, repeating over and over that it was ok, that it was all ok because he was here now, and maybe it was. Maybe it _was_ ok to forgive him for everything that had happened because he had done it for John, to keep him safe. It had been the worst years of both of their lives and there was anger and a lot of pain left from it but they had both suffered enough for ten lifetimes now. It was time to live again. Either way, whether all could be forgiven or not , they would find out together, because John would not let Sherlock fall again, not without him right there next to him, following forever. He believed in Sherlock Holmes.

**A/N I was going to make this smut, I was, but then it all descended into a sobbing mess and I don't know why but I prefer it this way. I think that's a good place to end it, but if you disagree do let me know. -S**


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